


Betting Man

by cheride



Category: White Collar (TV 2009)
Genre: Bets & Wagers, Developing Friendships, Early in Canon, Gen, Having Faith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-23 01:08:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30047610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheride/pseuds/cheride
Summary: The NYC White Collar Crime Unit has had a felon in residence for a few weeks now. The general consensus is it's a temporary situation.
Relationships: Peter Burke & Neal Caffrey
Comments: 21
Kudos: 49





	Betting Man

Coming down the hall from the archive storage area, hands filled with musty files, Neal was stealthy by habit more than intent. And when he heard voices around the corner, it was habit that led him to glide silently to a stop, letting them carry on with their private conversation uninterrupted, unaware of his presence. He wasn’t precisely proud of his eavesdropping (though he wasn’t particularly ashamed of it, either), but an ex-con on a work release in the custody of the FBI was a strange situation, and he’d already decided he would take any advantage he could find.

He’d been working in the White Collar unit less than a month, and he put on a good show of confidence—good enough, he thought, to fool at least most of the trained federal investigators—but inside information was always a valuable commodity; no one knew that better than Neal Caffrey. So, Neal listened.

He was unprepared for what he heard.

“We’ve split the years into two-week segments,” a male voice—Neal wasn’t sure, but thought maybe it was Agent Jackson—was telling the others. “That gives you a fourteen-day window with one bet.” He sounded like that was a good deal. “And it’s only a twenty-five dollar buy-in. It’ll be a nice payday for someone.”

“Don’t you think it’s a little . . . insensitive?” That was Leslie, one of the admins. She’d been nice to Neal from the beginning. Whatever they were betting on, he wasn’t surprised that she was leaning toward a principled stance.

“I’m sure it’s all in good fun, right, Bobby?” said another man. Neal didn’t recognize his voice, but it seemed he’d been right about the first identity: Robert Jackson.

“Sure,” Jackson said amiably. “Naturally, everyone hopes he’ll succeed.”

“But you’re literally betting against him,” Leslie pointed out. “Seems like that gives people about twenty-five hundred reasons to hope the marshals have to get involved.”

Neal was so surprised he almost dropped his files. They were betting on _him._ Or, more accurately, as Leslie had pointed out, betting _against_ him.

The unidentified man wanted to make sure he understood the rules before putting up his twenty-five bucks. “So, arrest or escape—either one wins, right?”

“Yep, and dates run the clock—midnight to eleven fifty-nine. And I should warn you, the first year is almost entirely taken already, so if you’re leaning early, you need to get in on this right away.”

“You guys are disgusting,” Leslie snapped, and then it sounded like she beat a hasty retreat, leaving them to their wagering.

“You know, I might actually go in for a couple different blocks,” the second guys said, and by then, Neal had heard enough.

As quietly as he’d approached, Neal backed away from the corner, then pulled his phone from his pocket. Placing the device to his ear, Neal hunched in on himself, holding file folders up partially in front of his face as if he were hiding something, then began a harshly whispered ‘conversation’ as he shuffled toward the others much more obtrusively.

“No,” he said into his phone, “you’re not listening to me; this month is too soon. I need more time than—” he broke off as he rounded the corner and almost ran into the other men, widening his eyes and letting a guilty expression flash across his face. “Gotta go,” he said quickly to the phone, then stabbed at the _END_ button as he pasted on his trademark grin. He recognized the second man, after all.

“Oh! Agent Jackson, Agent Andel, sorry; you startled me.” He didn’t wait for a response before continuing on his way. But he made note of the red file folder in Jackson’s hand labeled TIMELINE.

Neal allowed himself a slight grin as he heard Andel’s whispered words behind him. “Do you have anything left for next month?”

Hearing the agents so cavalierly assuming he wouldn’t successfully complete the terms of his probation had caught Neal off guard, and at first, he wasn’t sure if he should be angry or hurt. But by the time he was making his way through the bullpen, he’d decided it didn’t matter what they thought. And, really, he had to admit that betting against him made a certain amount of sense. He was a criminal, after all. And he was looking for Kate, even if they didn’t know that. He thought maybe there was something to be said for cop instincts. By the time he’d climbed the stairs to Peter’s office, he’d decided he couldn’t begrudge them their fun. But he thought maybe he could have some of his own, too.

“You guys really need to invest in a cleaning service down there,” Neal said without preamble as he dropped the files onto Peter’s desk, then dropped himself into a visitor chair.

“Stop complaining,” Peter ordered, waving a hand through the small cloud of dust particles that puffed off the folders. “You’ve already been clear that you consider fetching files beneath you.”

“It’s not that it’s beneath me, Peter, but you, of all people, should know that my current financial situation doesn’t allow for excessive dry cleaning.” He brushed a smudge from his sleeve to prove his point. “If you insist on sending me down into that grime-infested burrow, I’m going to have to send you a bill.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Peter was obviously tired of the conversation and was already engrossed in the lightly yellowed case file.

Neal sat silently for a few minutes, letting Peter work, and then casually said, “But speaking of finances, I might know a way to give my coffers a tiny bit of a boost.” This time, he didn’t let himself grin at the reaction.

“Caffrey.” Peter immediately pushed the files aside and pinned his CI with a stern gaze. “What are you planning?”

“Relax, Peter, nothing illegal.” He paused and raised an eyebrow quizzically. “Though, actually, now that I think about it . . . I’d have to check the gambling statutes to know for sure. But government-sanctioned illegality would be okay, right? I mean, that’s practically the definition of my work here.” He did grin a little then, watching as Peter’s eye started to twitch.

Rather than addressing the comment directly, Peter glanced at his watch. “Ten-fifteen,” he mused. “I bet I could get you back before they shut down the lunch line, but they’d probably already be all out of fruit cups.”

Neal rolled his eyes. Less than a month, but the threat was getting old already. “No need to get huffy,” he replied smoothly. “Especially because this plan makes us _both_ a little extra cash.” He leaned into the desk and lowered his voice to a more conspiratorial level. “It’s come to my attention there’s a certain office pool going around. Your agents don’t seem to think I can hold up my end of the deal.”

Peter’s eyebrows shot up toward his hairline. “You heard about that?”

“You mean _you_ heard about it?” Neal countered. He didn’t wait for the other man to answer. “Good, makes it easier that you already know. So, listen, obviously, they wouldn’t let _me_ make a bet, so I figure you can be my front man. You pick the earliest date they’ve got, I’ll stage a little appropriately timed jailbreak, then I’ll let you catch me again, and we’ll split the pot.” He grinned as he leaned back, looking decidedly satisfied. “Whattaya say?”

Peter mimicked Neal’s actions, leaning back in his own chair, folded hands resting against his body as he glared across the desk.

When the silence began to feel strained, Neal started fidgeting, squirming around in his seat, unable to get settled. And when the silence stretched past ninety seconds, he expelled a short huff of exasperation. “What? It’s a good plan.”

Seeming to count that as some sort of victory, Peter finally spoke. His own exasperation was far less subtle. “Have you lost your mind?”

He rocked his chair forward abruptly, forearms stretched across the desktop, still glaring. “How could you possibly think I’d go along with such a harebrained idea? And have you even thought it all the way through? Even assuming I’d be willing to let you stage some sort of ‘ _jailbreak_ ’—which I wouldn’t—how do you actually see that playing out? You think you just waltz back in here the next day, and everything’s fine? Because that’s not the way it would work. When I collected my winnings, I’d have to put your share into your commissary account. You’d be in prison, Neal! What the hell are you thinking?”

Neal let him rant and swallowed hard a couple of times before replying. “Okay, Peter, _sorry._ I just—I mean, I wasn’t—it was just going to be a little con on the others, not a real escape. I’d even tell you where I’d be the entire time. I just thought you’d be able to fix the official version.”

Finally, Peter took a breath and seemed to calm himself. “Neal, I appreciate your faith in my abilities, but I don’t have that kind of pull. I can’t fix an escape. It isn’t a game. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Sullen and chastised, Neal dropped his gaze to his tightly clasped hands.

They sat through a bit more silence until Peter said, “I’m sorry you found out about the pool.”

Neal shrugged. “Shouldn’t be surprised, I guess.”

“I thought about shutting it down,” Peter went on, “but then I decided being too heavy-handed about it would make things worse. For you, I mean.” He gazed sincerely into troubled blue eyes. “You should know that there were several people who refused to play along at all. But, more important, in the past week or so, people have started dropping out of the pool.” He offered a smile. “People are starting to know you, Neal; starting to like you. They’re already finding it hard to bet against you.”

Some of the tension drained from Neal’s posture, and he allowed himself a ghost of a smile, though he still didn’t raise his eyes. “I know it’ll be easier for you when they get used to me.” He finally glanced up to look at his handler. “You know I don’t care about the pool, right? What _they_ think doesn’t matter much to me.” His slightest emphasis implied there could be someone whose thoughts _did_ matter.

If Peter doubted the truth of the indifference, he didn’t let on—much. “I know you probably don’t want to care. And you don’t need to worry about what’s easy for me. You stick to the deal, and we’re fine, okay?”

The full-on Caffrey grin finally broke through. “Okay.” He pushed himself to his feet. “You sure you don’t want to try to win the pot? I can fine-tune the plan, set up some sort of minor infraction so you’d be the only one who needed to arrest me instead of an escape that would involve the marshals—” He broke off when the glare returned, held up his hands with a laugh. “Okay, okay. But just know that we’re really missing out on an easy score. And speaking as someone who’s barely paid enough to qualify as subsistence wage, passing up an easy score is a tough thing to do.” He affected a put-upon air. “But I’ll do it for you.”

Peter jabbed a finger toward the door. “Get out.”

Laughing again, Neal said, “Fine. If you’re gonna be that way, maybe I’ll see if Jones will be my front man.”

“It’s like talking to a wall. Don’t call me when the marshals are breathing down your neck. And tell Jones he better not undercut me.”

Neal’s step faltered in the doorway, and his laughter faded, but he forced the grin to stay in place as he turned back. “You already placed a bet?”

Peter just smiled as he went back to his case file. “Me? Illegal gambling? You should know better. Now get back to work.”

Peter had dismissed him, but Neal stood silently at the door for a few seconds longer, watching his handler, trying to ignore the hollow feeling suddenly in his gut. He opened his mouth, then closed it again when he realized he had no idea what he’d say, so he simply returned to his desk and got back to work.

The morning passed uneventfully and quietly, and if Peter wondered why Neal was unusually focused on the bank fraud files at his desk instead of spending ridiculous amounts of time in his handler’s office, he didn’t ask about it.

When Peter stopped by his consultant’s desk with an invitation to join him at lunchtime, Neal begged off, saying he was lunching with June today. But after Peter left, Neal just grabbed a bottle of water and spent his lunch hour in an unused conference room on the twenty-second floor, lost in thought.

Except for the initial shock of it all, he really hadn’t been too bothered by the office pool. He could understand the agents’ skepticism of him, and he’d certainly never deny anyone the opportunity to hustle a little extra cash; in fact, he could almost commend the idea. And he hadn’t been downplaying things _too_ much when he said he wasn’t worried about what a bunch of random FBI agents thought about him. But no matter how much he turned it over in his head, or how many ways he tried to spin it, he couldn’t convince himself that he didn’t care what one _particular_ agent thought. And if he was honest with himself—which he mostly tried to be—he had to admit that the idea of Peter Burke betting against his success was making him a little crazy. Even if he wasn’t entirely sure himself if he intended to stick around to serve out his sentence, Neal had kind of been settling into the idea that Peter expected it of him. Now he had to consider the idea that the agent had no more faith in him than he had in himself, and he was finding that a little hard to accept, though damned if he knew exactly why.

Logically, if Peter thought Neal was destined to fail, that meant the man had accepted that he, himself, was going to fail. After all, as far as the FBI was concerned, Neal was Peter’s responsibility, so by betting against his CI, Peter was ultimately betting against himself. That was a foreign concept for Neal; he would never admit defeat so readily. As far as he was concerned, there was always another way. Wasn’t that the kind of thinking that landed him working for the FBI to begin with?

But if Peter expected failure, why did he even take the deal? He’d said ‘no’ at first, and Neal had been prepared to accept that. (Mostly. Though he wouldn’t deny he’d already started working out another escape plan by the time Peter changed his mind.) It was another concept Neal couldn’t understand. _He_ would never go into a situation expecting one thing and hoping to be proven wrong, but it seemed maybe that’s exactly what Peter had done. Except, who did something like that? Surely not practical, staid, by-the-book Peter Burke.

Rising from his seat, Neal moved over to the window and let his eyes wander the cityscape. He had to admit the Bureau offices had some pretty nice views. He hadn’t seen much of that when he’d been arrested the first time. During his initial processing and interrogation, Peter had insisted he be kept in interior rooms only—the downside of having slipped away from the man one too many times. He smiled a little at the memory, though there really shouldn’t be anything pleasant to recall about an arrest that had ultimately led to his conviction and incarceration.

But hadn’t that arrest and the dogged pursuit that had preceded it been what led him to make the crazy offer to Peter in the first place? And he assumed it was also what had led Peter to accept. All of which brought him back to the question at hand today. Well, two questions, really.

Which did Peter think more likely—that Neal would commit another crime or that he’d run?

And, one way or the other, how long did Peter believe it would be until Neal broke his promise and reneged on the deal?

With nothing any clearer in his mind than it had been an hour earlier, Neal crushed and twisted his empty bottle, then threw it into the recycle can with far more force than necessary.

As he stepped out of the elevator on the twenty-first floor, Peter was stepping out of the other car. The agent gave him a hard look, openly suspicious.

“Must’ve just missed each other,” Neal said with a strained smile and held open the glass door to let Peter precede him into the bullpen. He immediately seated himself at his desk as Peter continued on, but the agent stopped after only a few steps.

“You’re not coming up?” Peter asked, the surprise written on his face.

“Oh, sorry; did you need something?”

“No, I just—no.”

Neal gestured at the files on his desk. “I need to get back into this Fidelity Credit Union thing.”

Peter held his gaze for a moment before finally nodding. “Okay, let me know if you find anything.”

Neal spent the rest of the afternoon with his thoughts drifting alternately between the fraudulent Fidelity debit cards and Peter’s office pool bet. Between the two topics, he was focused enough that he didn’t notice the strange looks coming from Peter’s office or the whispers in the bullpen wondering about his unusually conventional behavior. Even in the short time he’d been working there, no one had missed the fact that Neal typically spent an inordinate amount of time in Peter’s office or that Peter—regardless of his complaints—seemed to prefer it that way. But today, Neal was glued to his desk.

And that’s exactly where Peter found him when he finally came downstairs at five-thirty. “C’mon,” he commanded gruffly, “it’s quitting time. I’ll drive you.”

Neal looked up slowly. He had debated this moment back and forth for a couple of hours, ever since he’d decided he had to get a look at Agent Jackson’s betting sheets for the office pool. It had been a close call, but he’d ultimately decided that working late would be less suspicious than returning to the office after hours. Unfortunately, that option meant getting past Peter.

“You go ahead,” Neal said easily, “I’m going to work on this just a little longer. I think I might be on to something.”

“Oh yeah?” Peter was obviously intrigued despite his equally obvious suspicion. “What’ve you got?”

“I’m not really sure yet; just feel like there’s something here.” That wasn’t entirely true. Neal was almost convinced that the teller who’d been the clear front runner in the suspect pool was actually innocent, and the debit cards were being liberated before they even reached the credit union. His money was on the delivery driver more than anyone at the other end of the transport, but he wasn’t sure yet. And there still was a second culprit inside the credit union, just not the person they’d thought.

“Okay, well, walk me through it. We’ll brainstorm a little.” Peter hitched a hip against the neighboring desk and looked ready to settle in. That possibility had worried Neal.

But he just shook his head slightly and put on an apologetic face. “Peter, really, it’s not solid yet, more just a nebulous feeling so far. I want to go over it a little more, if that’s okay.”

Peter watched his face closely for a minute before asking, “Neal, what’s going on?”

“I told you, I’m not sure yet, it’s—”

“No. What’s going on with _you?_ ” Concerned understanding suddenly filled his eyes. “You’re not still thinking about that office pool, are you? Because I told you, I don’t think you need to worry about that. People will come around; you’ll see.”

Biting back the urge to call Peter out on his hypocrisy, Neal stuck to his plan. “No, nothing like that, just got this case stuck in my head now.”

Watching Peter trying to formulate an answer, seeming torn between his usual suspicion and some sort of weird almost-pride, Neal realized that if the man wanted to play at being a concerned handler, he could probably use that to his advantage. He let his face show some of his honest disappointment and asked hesitantly, “Unless . . . unless you don’t trust me here alone?”

“What? No, of course not! I mean, there are obviously places you’re not authorized to be, but, Neal, I didn’t bring you here to make you feel like some kind of second-class citizen.”

Peter _seemed_ so sincere in his reassurances that Neal immediately decided he didn’t like trying to con the man, but he forced down the guilt. After all, Peter was clearly conning him, too. He waited quietly for the agent to come to a decision.

“I don’t want you feeling like you have to work non-stop,” Peter finally said gently. “That’s not our deal. There’ll be plenty of times we’ll _have_ to work late, but this isn’t one of them. You can let this wait until tomorrow.”

Neal tamped down a little more guilt and reminded himself this man was betting on his betrayal. “I know that, Peter. But unless you’re telling me I _can’t_ stay, I’d really like to work on this just a little while longer.”

Straightening from his perch on the desk, Peter raised a single admonishing finger. “One hour,” he said firmly, “then you go home. And tomorrow morning, you fill me in, no matter how nebulous it is.”

“Deal.” Neal flashed a genuine smile.

“Pick you up tomorrow?”

“I’ll see you then. Goodnight, Peter.”

Neal watched the agent until he was in the elevator, then spent the next thirty minutes legitimately going over the Fidelity file. Then he took a quick stroll through the entire office, ensuring no one was still working back in the interrogation area or one of the conference rooms.

Once he was sure he was alone, he made his way back to the bullpen and walked confidently to Agent Jackson’s desk, taking one of his Fidelity files with him. He knew there were cameras in the office—he’d scoped out their entire security system within his first two days—but he also knew the security staff didn’t monitor them constantly and that they didn’t typically review the recordings. As long as he didn’t look like he was doing anything suspicious should one of the security officers see the live feed, and if no one had a reason to check the tapes, he should be fine.

Seated at Jackson’s desk, he opened the file and pretended to study the pages while he discreetly tugged on each of the desk drawers. Of course, they were locked. Opening the drawers would be child’s play, but it would be easier if he didn’t have to hide the fact he was doing it. Neal sighed as he snagged a couple of paper clips from a bowl on the desk and carried them with him to the men’s room. At least he could fashion his tools out from under the watchful eyes of the cameras. He was tempted to pull the emergency picks out of the cuff of his shirt sleeve, but as the one responsible for his tailoring, Mozzie tended to get annoyed when he did that for anything less than an _actual_ emergency. He was pretty sure trying to gauge his handler’s level of distrust wouldn’t qualify in Moz’s book.

Once he was back at the desk with his rudimentary tensioner and rake, Neal made himself comfortable. He turned on the monitor to let the light give the illusion he was working on the computer, then pushed back from the desk a bit and pulled the keyboard into his lap. Anyone glancing at him would see an exhausted worker just trying to get through some sort of never-ending assignment. They wouldn’t see that his hands weren’t actually on the keyboard at all.

Even with makeshift tools, it took him less than thirty seconds to open the pencil drawer, and he was rewarded with finding the red file folder in the most obvious place for it. Thank goodness for the unimaginative minds of the FBI.

Drawing in a deep breath, Neal reminded himself he didn’t care about what was inside, then opened the folder. Inside were four sheets of paper, one for each year the feds would have him on a leash. Each page was filled with twenty-six neatly designed horizontal boxes, dated with the two-week window the wager represented. Handwritten inside the boxes were the names of whoever claimed the box.

Just a quick glance proved Jackson was right about one thing: almost the entire first sheet was full. In fact, at one point, it _had been_ full, but Neal could see that Peter was right about something, too: several of the names had been scratched out. Presumably, those were the people who’d changed their minds about participating in the pool. Neal wondered if it was really because they’d decided they could trust him to fulfill his probation or if they’d simply had an attack of conscience and realized the whole thing was really kind of a dick move. He wasn’t sure it mattered much which it was; he was just glad not everyone was going along.

As he scanned the page, he was trying not to commit names to his memory because he really was trying to be the bigger person here, but he stopped when he saw Lauren Cruz written in two different boxes at about the ninety-day mark. That wasn’t really too surprising—not like finding out _Peter_ had placed a bet—because he knew Lauren didn’t like him much. What _was_ surprising was that hers was one of the names that had been crossed off. If anyone had asked him, Neal would’ve said he hadn’t quite managed to work his way into her good graces just yet, but maybe he would’ve been wrong. He allowed himself a small smile at that as he continued reading.

The second year’s page was a little over half full and the third maybe a quarter spoken for, but he still hadn’t found Peter’s name. He supposed that made a little bit of sense. Most people might assume that if he lasted all the way to year four, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to mess it up then. Peter Burke knew differently. After all, the man had tracked him down when he’d escaped from prison with only four months left on his original four-year sentence. He thought he might even be able to appreciate the irony if it turned out that was the block of time Peter had bet on. At least, that’s what he told himself.

Neal hesitated before turning the last page. Knowing what he was going to see, he was suddenly no longer sure he wanted to see it. After all, he had at least a ballpark idea now; Peter didn’t expect him to just cut and run the first chance he had, but he also didn’t think he had the staying power to go the distance. He wasn’t sure which he would have preferred. 

He held on to the paper for a long, long moment and had almost convinced himself he didn’t want to know. But then he felt the cold pit of disappointment transform into a fiery ball of anger, and right at that moment, he made the decision to run.

Not now, of course, oh no. He would bide his time, follow their rules, play their games. But he would mark a certain two-week block of time on his calendar, and when it finally rolled around, Neal Caffrey would disappear. And when Peter collected his winnings, he would know the truth. He would realize then that Neal had been playing his own game. Peter would be lamenting the loss of his consultant, complaining about betrayal, and then he would understand that Neal had known all along that the betrayal had happened years earlier when Peter Burke had sold his trust.

Fortified by his fury, Neal finally flipped the last page. As he’d expected, it was mostly empty; just a couple of the boxes had names scrawled inside, but neither of those names was Peter’s.

His eyes continued to track down the page, and there, at the very bottom, underneath the last pre-printed, dated box, was a single handwritten entry:

NEVER—P. Burke.

Neal didn’t know how long he stared at the paper, or exactly when the ridiculous grin had spread across his face, or if the laughter he felt bubbling up inside had actually spilled over to the outside, but none of that mattered. The only thing that mattered was that Peter believed in him after all. None of his concern had been a con.

As if on cue, Neal’s phone buzzed with an incoming text message. As usual, Peter was succinct and to the point. _You remember I can see where you are, right? It’s been 65 minutes. Don’t make me come back there._

Neal did laugh out loud then as he quickly reassembled Jackson’s wagering sheets, putting the pages neatly back inside the red folder, the folder back in the drawer exactly as it had been, and then reversing the pick to re-lock the desk. After making sure nothing was out of place, Neal slipped the incriminating paper clips into his pocket, grabbed his case file, and hurried back to his own desk, straightening it up quickly as well.

Another text. _68 minutes. I’m putting on my shoes._

Still grinning, Neal finally took the time to reply. _Take off your shoes, I’m leaving now. Come early tomorrow. I’ll make extra Italian roast and tell you who’s behind the credit union scam._

Peter didn’t answer until Neal was outside the building and almost to the street, no doubt making sure he was really on the move. _That’s pretty big talk from a guy who only had a nebulous feeling 68 minutes ago._

Neal wasn’t sure if that was more suspicion or typical Burke teasing, so he kept his answer pretty straightforward. _It’s amazing how much more productive I can be without all the federal oversight._

Peter’s reply was swift. _That’s what worries me._

 _Surely you don’t doubt me, Peter?_ When there was no immediate answer, Neal stepped to the curb to flag a cab. As he climbed into the backseat and gave his address, the next text came through.

_Probably not as much as I should._

So, Peter offered such faith as he could, even against his own instincts. Neal could live with that. He looked down as his phone buzzed again.

 _I don’t want to wait until tomorrow to hear your big breakthrough._ _El’s making some kind of pasta, and there’ll be plenty. Come for dinner, we’ll talk business after dessert._

 _Check with Elizabeth._ But Neal leaned forward and asked the cabbie to go to Peter’s address instead.

After a minute, Peter wrote back. _She says you’ll like the meal better than I will anyway. See you soon._ There was another pause before the next message.

_But I still want Italian roast tomorrow._

Neal smiled to himself as he settled in for the ride to Brooklyn and sent one final reply.

_You bet._

**~END~**

**Author's Note:**

> Any thoughts/opinions are welcome, and, as always, thank you for reading!


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